


Press into my skin again

by PoeticallyIrritating



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-02-03 06:18:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1734197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoeticallyIrritating/pseuds/PoeticallyIrritating
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Scene from 2x03, expanded.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Press into my skin again

**Author's Note:**

> Here, beneath my lungs  
> I feel your thumbs  
> Press into my skin again  
> —"Welcome Home," Radical Face

She’d forgotten what it was like, kissing Cal, all whiskers and tenderness. (She remembers the cabin, though; even a few years worse for wear, it still smells like pine and dirt and sweat, smells like home.) She’d forgotten what it was like and then she remembers all at once; he kisses a reminder into her mouth and then sways, leaning back against the doorframe. Waits, all languor, all easy grace. _Can’t you stop running for a minute?_ he asked, and she is so tired of running. She has never been so tired; she’s been wearing the same clothes for four days straight and the week-old smudges of eyeliner are indistinguishable from the exhaustion dark under her eyes. She has never been so tired, and he’s looking at her like she’s beautiful.

She shrugs off her jacket as she moves in, tries to communicate _I’m staying_ and _I trust you_ and _I want you_ all at once. She surges up to meet his mouth and aches at all the ways he’s the same, all the ways she’s different. The way she twines around him and still fits exactly right. She makes to help him with his outer layers, hungry for skin and warmth, but he’s already done it; his mouth is on her neck, starting heat smoldering through her body, and his hands are gentle pressure on her thighs. Her hair gets caught between their mouths and he helps push it out of her face; they smile into each other’s eyes, into the next kiss.

They tumble onto the bed like they used to be, Sarah laughing, half-dressed, pulling her shirt over her head as Cal kicks off his pants and presses her into the pillows. He kisses her face, neck, chest; he sucks the salt from her skin. She draws him back up with a nudge of her hand and takes him again, kissing him open-mouthed, her tongue tangling with his, her hands sliding against his back. (The smell of campfire smoke lingers in his beard.) He breaks the kiss to pull off her bra and then it’s his bare chest against hers, her skin and his skin, and Sarah bites back an absurd urge to cry at the feeling.

Cal slides a hand between them, beneath her underwear, and her breath hitches at his blunt fingers rubbing circles against her. She arches up into his hand, his chest, his mouth—she’s hot and desperate and needy, her exhaustion falling away in favor of _this._ “Cal,” she murmurs, and when he does nothing she says again, _“Cal.”_ He looks at her, honest-eyed. “Take off the rest of these bloody clothes and—” She hesitates. _Fuck me_ is a string of dealer boyfriends, angry men with steely eyes. _Make love to me_ is faux-charming men who smiled like snakes. Cal is sliding her underwear down her legs, discarding his own, already got the hint, and instead of any of those ruined phrases she says, low-voiced, eyes dark, “Come here.”

He reaches over to fumble in the bedside table, remarks something about “another Kira” as he opens the package, and she huffs out a low, unsteady laugh. Her heart surges with emotion, for her daughter—their daughter—holy shit.

It’s too much, right now, the thought of Kira being not hers but _theirs;_ the knowledge is a tightness in her chest, hazy memories of sleepless nights in a grimy apartment, a thick, heavy warmth spreading through her skin that might be love and might be more of the arousal slick between her thighs and might be a fever brought on from cold nights and running too far. She reaches for Cal and he moves in again, beard scratching against her cheeks, and pushes into her, mouth on the tender skin behind her ear. She lets out a long, shuddering breath. And then she’s kissing like she could consume him, hands clutching at his back, legs wrapped tight around his waist. She’s all over sweat-slick, breathless, sucking at whatever part of him she can reach, soft involuntary sounds vibrating against his skin in time with his movements. She’s full, and close, and she needs _more,_ just a little bit—she pushes a hand into the scant space between them, fingertip-friction chasing tremors through her legs, making her shudder beneath him, around him, her other hand tightening on his back as she gasps into his neck. His breathing is growing heavy too, and it’s only a matter of seconds before he’s quaking above her, burying his face in her hair.

They come down together, still pressed close, Sarah on her side with one arm draped across Cal’s chest, and she murmurs soft nothing-words into the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Her tiredness comes back all at once, drags down her eyelids and makes her muscles limp (she has never been so tired) and her fingers trace lazy patterns on his chest until she falls asleep.


End file.
